


Sincerely Yours [Letters to a Loved One Remix]

by Spatzi_Schatz



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon to AU remix, Galra Culture, Galra Empire, Galran Prince Keith (Voltron), Historical-ish AU, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Noble Shiro (Voltron), One-Sided Attraction, Prince Keith (Voltron), Prince disguised as a Pauper, Regency AU but in Space, Remix, Secret Identity, but not really, letter writing, one crucial detail remix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatzi_Schatz/pseuds/Spatzi_Schatz
Summary: Shiro has been betrothed to Lord Yurak of Marmora for practically as long as he can remember. His nuptial arrangement predates his royal service, his pilot training at The Garrison, even the death of his grandparents. It definitely predates the Great War.But the Great War is supposedly over, at least in an official sense, according to the peace treaties if nothing else. Even so, Shiro has been so thoroughly preoccupied by the inheritance of his grandfather’s land and titles at the March of Arus and his promotion to admiral of the Royal Altean Fleet, he has not had a spare thought for neither marriage nor noble alliances and court politics. Until the arrival of the messenger, that is.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 58
Collections: Sheith Remix 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [letters to a loved one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22242535) by [sugarcubeshiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarcubeshiro/pseuds/sugarcubeshiro). 



> I told myself I wasn't going to let this grow into a complex beast of a tale buttttt... I am _really terrible_ at listening to myself. 
> 
> regardless! I was super thrilled to get to work with and remix [sugarcubeshiro's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarcubeshiro/pseuds/sugarcubeshiro) work. It was seriously so hard to pick because I love all their work and I really wanted to do Letters justice but in my own style. So after a couple different ideas and rounds of refining, comes this pseudo-Regency/Victorian space-steampunk nonsense, also inspired by an episode of Violet Evergarden, "You Write Letters That Bring People Together?" Thanks ils for letting me bounce ideas off you and whine when the story wasn't cooperating 8D;; 
> 
> Enjoy! :D 

Shiro has been betrothed to Lord Yurak of Marmora for practically as long as he can remember. (Longer if one is being completely technical since his memories aren’t his own but a transplanted copy of the original. That’s a story for another time.) His nuptial arrangement predates his royal service, his pilot training at The Garrison, even the death of his grandparents. It definitely predates the Great War. 

But the Great War is supposedly over, at least in an official sense, according to the peace treaties if nothing else. Even so, Shiro has been so thoroughly preoccupied by the inheritance of his grandfather’s land and titles at the March of Arus and his promotion to admiral of the Royal Altean Fleet, he has not had a spare thought for neither marriage nor noble alliances and court politics. Until the arrival of the messenger, that is.

Shiro thinks nothing of the commotion outside his window. His new office, nestled on the top-most floor of the Altean Royal Customs Offices, is in the middle of the bustling spaceport. The noise of trucks and carts hauling crates; crews loading and unloading cargo; hawkers trying to turn a quick credit on surplus stock; sailors freshly released on shore leave headed to the nearest pub (other establishments will come later); family, friends, and gawkers shouting farewells to the tailfins of departing ships: the noise of the port is comfortingly familiar and invariable.

Allura had offered him quite a nice office in the capitol building on central square, but it had been too… quiet, the white walls too pristine and bright, too far removed from the action that made up his command. He would have much prefered to keep his office on the flagship the  _ IGF Atlas,  _ but that idea had been summarily rejected. So he had gone with the lesser of two evils, an office where he could still see the chaos of the port, if only from a distance. 

So no, it isn’t the slightly-louder-than-normal chaos outside that catches Shiro’s attention, but the quietest metallic click of someone slipping in and throwing the lock. Shiro draws his pistol on the intruder—a Galra no less!—before he fully stands, one overlarge furred ear pinned to the door. Both ears turn toward Shiro at the telltale sound of a hammer cocking and the pistol’s energy charging to fire. The galra lifts both hands while still crouched by the door, rising slowly as he pivots to face the Admiral. 

“I had always wondered at the Terran expression, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ but now I understand,” the Galra remarks. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had so many guns drawn on me in a single afternoon.” 

Shiro refuses to be swayed by the quip. “You have a message for whom?” 

The Galra holds his gaze steadily. “Admiral Takashi Shirogane,” he says, “from Leader Krolia of the Marmora. If I reach into my coat to retrieve it, are you going to startle and fire?” 

The implication in the Galra’s tone curls Shiro’s stomach, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. He inclines his head to give the messenger permission to move, but doesn't lower his weapon. The messenger pulls a thick envelope from an inside pocket and shows the seal with its distinct blue-indigo wax and the impression of the Marmoran clan signet. 

The messenger lifts a brow when Shiro doesn’t move right away. “I could read it to you, but I assume you would like to authenticate the seal before it’s broken.”

Another tense beat passes before Shiro holsters the pistol. The messenger approaches and places the letter in one of the few clearer parts of Shiro’s desk. After, he immediately retreats, standing a respectable distance away. Shiro can feel the messenger’s bright gaze on him as he inspects the letter in detail, turning the thick paper in his hands this way and that, looking for any signs of tampering. Finding nothing, Shiro keeps his attention on his datapad as it scans and processes the seal. The device chirps when it’s finished and declares the seal authentic. Shiro breaks it cleanly with a knife. He has an acquaintance in the Galra embassy who can confirm the seal. Just to be safe. 

He unfolds the letter. 

_ Greetings Admiral Shirogane:  _

_ We are told it is customary to ask after the recipient’s well-being as prelude to the actual matters at hand when writing letters, but seeing as all nations seem to be in loose consensus as to our general disposition, still shrouded by the lingering shadow of the Empire’s failed colonization attempt and subsequent collapse, we feel it prudent to cut straight to the heart of the matter, as it were.  _

_ It is our understanding that you have honored the marriage arrangement previously agreed upon between our court and that of your late grandparents, and have conducted yourself well through what you and yours have termed The Great War, leading with the greatest wisdom and honor. It is because of our deep respect garnered through your actions during service that we impart on you this knowledge, and in doing so, a rare and fleeting opportunity: A choice.  _

_ Kr. Yurak’s twenty-first decaphoeb, which approaches on the horizon in a scant few phoebs, marks his official eligibility for marriage. Thus will begin the period of public courtship, marked by the exchange of letters between the two intended parties. Traditionally, a trusted member of the royal entourage is tasked with couriering these letters, allowing for a public reading of them on every Marmorean vessel that they may encounter on the journey between. The Galra, prior to being governed by an expansionist tyrant, have always been a space-faring race and a culture driven by exploration. The Marmora are no different. Historically a semi-nomadic clan, public courtship allowed for the transfer of vital information—and less-than-vital gossip—between fleets in a relatively secure manner. And despite our recent sendentacy due to our official stance of neutrality during the war, we have always maintained a robust network of couriers throughout the galaxy.  _

_ I mention all this in prelude to the crux of the matter; that is there has been a rise in desire among the Marmora to return to our traditional roots, from before we were a member of the overarching Galra Empire, including the return of public courtship. Our traditions have never dictated whom one could or could not marry, based on status, appearance, gender, beliefs, wealth, fertility, compatibility, alliances, oracles or birthmarks. Love and affection are not even precursors to marriage, nor are arranged marriages any more or less a rarity than love matches across all castes. What  _ is  _ vital, however—especially within the imperial court—is loyalty. Courtship is perhaps a misnomer as it is a precipice past which a bonding cannot be broken. To do so is for the couple to consign themselves to exile and disaffection from the Marmora.  _

_ Had the fates been kinder, you and Yurak would have spent your adolescence and young adulthood cultivating a partnership rather than warcraft. There is no simple method to untangle the threads of time, yet there exists a simple solution to this particular chasm of briar. Should you wish to, I, Leader Krolia of Marmora, will allow for the dissolution of the previous agreement set down between your family and mine in regards to the matter of this marriage.  _

_ I am of the personal opinion that you and my son would have made a smart match. That you could still make an advantageous union that would be of great benefit to both the Marmora and The Altean Coalition, politically, financially, and otherwise. However, at the end of the cycle, my intuition and the gains for my people do not grant me the authority to force the consummation of an agreement that was made under vastly different circumstances. And so, I defer judgement on the matter to you, Admiral Shirogane.  _

_ I would be so bold as to request your expeditious response. Should your wishes align with that of Lord Yurak’s, we will proceed with an accord appropriate to your decision.  _

__

_ With high regard, I set the seal of the Clan of Marmora in witness, on this the twelfth of Učrabol, the first Year of Nama with Peace.  _

_ Leader Marmora K. Krolia of Galra. _

The messenger must sense when Shiro finishes reading, that he is now just staring at the page in his hand. He interrupts Shiro’s buzzing thoughts to speak. 

“I leave again for Marmora in five quintants,” he says. “I’ll return here for your reply then.” 

“F-five!” Shiro stammers. “Five quintants?”  _ Only five days to make a decision?! _

The messenger’s eyebrows rise, though the corner of his mouth twitches minutely. “Yes?” The up lilt of his voice mimicking Shiro’s. 

“I only meant…” Shiro collects himself and clears his throat. “Where are you staying?” 

The messenger gives him a plainly doubting look, but lets the cover-up slide, shrugging his narrow shoulders in a strangely Terran gesture. “There is a small living quarters on the ship that brought me here.” 

Shiro scoffs, shakes his head. “That won’t do,” he says, his aristocratic upbringing kicking in and demanding that he host his guest well. “There is ample room in my apartments. You will stay there in the interim. It’s the least I can do after you’ve travelled all this way on my account.” 

The messenger pauses, studying him. “As bringing the message was at the behest of my Leader, I would not have refused.” 

“Still, it is a long way from Marmora to Altea,” Shiro reasons, regaining his verbal footing. “I’m sure you would appreciate a bed with a mattress as opposed to a ship’s cot.”

The messenger hums, lips quirking again, before he sketches a bow, an incredibly lazy bow. His long braid falls forward over his shoulder. 

“As you insist, Admiral.” 

Shiro will not be flustered. Instead he calls for someone to show the messenger the way to his address. He quickly pens a note for Hunk to explain the situation, at least in part, and gives it to the messenger by way of introduction. 

“Make yourself at home when you arrive,” he says. “Anything you need, Mr. Garrett should be able to procure for you.” 

The messenger takes the note, glancing between it and Shiro, before nodding. “By your leave then.” 

Shiro remains standing as he watches the messenger leave with the escort from his front staff. As soon as the door clicks shut and their footsteps fade, however, he loosens his commanding facade like letting out a long-held breath, and slumps back into his desk chair, huffing his silvery bangs out of his face. He stares at the letter sitting open on his desk and wonders at the innocuous-looking items that can irrevocably change a man’s life. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shiro does some light internet stalking of his potential fiance and discovers a mystery.
> 
> _Shiro finds he cannot return his focus to shipping routes and proposed trade agreements after the messenger’s departure. He makes a valiant attempt, but the same particularly dense section of a report from the Taugeerian Ark blurs for the third time and Shiro sets aside the docu-viewer in favor of his personal data pad. He starts with a generic search of the publicly-accessible Galactic NET, Newscast & Encyclopedic Telearchive. His searches unearth very little except that the Marmora are an elusive people with a fairly closely-kept culture, especially in the wake of the blockade of their home planet and systematic genocide of their people abroad led by Haggar’s druidic cult. _

Shiro finds he cannot return his focus to shipping routes and proposed trade agreements after the messenger’s departure. He makes a valiant attempt, but the same particularly dense section of a report from the Taugeerian Ark blurs for the third time and Shiro sets aside the docu-viewer in favor of his personal data pad. He drums his fingers against the cherry wood desktop before he dismisses the various maps and star charts from the inset display and projects his device onto it. 

He starts with a generic search of the publicly-accessible Galactic NET, Newscast & Encyclopedic Telearchive. He inputs [Marmora, Culture], [Marmora, People], [Marmora, Alliances], [Marmora-Empire Relations], [Marmora-Coalition Relations], [Marmora-Terran Relations], [Marmora, Governance], and any other terms he comes across as he dives into the sinkhole that is the NET. 

His searches unearth very little except that the Marmora are an elusive people with a fairly closely-kept culture, especially in the wake of the blockade of their home planet and systematic genocide of their people abroad led by Haggar’s druidic cult. The siege and slaughter the Marmora experienced was a result of their stalwart commitment to neutrality, according to the article Shiro finds. But rumors abound of a strong public bias toward the Coalition and a staunch sect of rebels against the Empire, the Blade of Marmora. He flags that bit of information for later before moving to the NewsVid feeds to do a search on his potential husband-to-be. 

While the official archives leave much to be desired, the NewsVid search returns pages of clips on the Marmoran nobility, some more rumor-mongering than others. He finds several articles following the political career of Leader Krolia, beginning with the assassination of her consort nearly fifteen decapheobs ago. Though credit for the assassination was never claimed by any nation officially, though theories abound on the NET of course, the event spring-boarded the young noble into the political spotlight as a supporter of independence from the Empire and Coalition both, an advocate of reinstating their sovereignty. Shiro downloads a handful of more reputable-looking articles to read later, as well as some interview clips and speech recordings. 

There is less on Lord Yurak in the political sphere, except as Krolia’s only child and heir. There are, however, several write-ups about him in more popular magazines, first for his record-setting flight and test scores, lauding him the youngest officer to graduate from the Galra Military Academy. _A prodigy the likes of which we haven’t seen since the Exalted Emperor himself attended school,_ one pull-quote gushes. Shiro tries not to let the comparison sour his perspective. The publication has a very clear pro-Empire bias, and his Grandfather would have never bargained his matrimonial life with someone he didn’t respect, let alone an imperialist. The date of the article shows that it was published after the Great War began, but before Terra had agreed to join forces with Altea, before the formation of the Coalition, before even Shiro’s year as a prisoner of war. Though it is dated after his grandfather’s passing. He’s not sure if the realization makes him feel better or worse. 

There is a photograph that accompanies the article, and Shiro taps to bring up the full size image. It’s clearly Yurak’s first official officer’s photo. It makes Shiro cringe in sympathy, thinking of his own lieutenant portrait; they’re not exactly renowned as the most flattering of photos. But even in the grainy low-quality of the government-issued photo, Shiro can’t help but note how stunning the young noble looks. His features are sharp, highlighted by the symmetrical violet markings across his cheeks, and his expression severe and shuttered. His hair is in the slicked-back style favored by Galra officers to show the sagittal crest, though Yurak’s is not as prominent as some Galra. The ends curl defiantly against his neck whichever way they please instead of in a typical orderly fashion, giving him a somewhat puckish look, instead of that of a funamentalist. His eyes, rendered non-reflective by the Galra camera, startle Shiro in their vividness, a piercing indigo Shiro only associates with deep space. 

Shiro hastily closes the photo--though still clips the article--and moves on to the next. Lord Yurak is a darling of the Galra press throughout his military career, despite being unusually adept at avoiding the paparazzi almost entirely. Or perhaps because of it. He attends no awards ceremonies, victory parades, or high-society events, though he is clearly invited to many; he gives no interviews or statements; and the few photos the press does manage to get are all shot from a far distance, out of focus and at a strange angle. Regardless, the tabloids gleefully recount his victories and rapid ascension through military ranks and increasingly prestigious postings, most of which Shiro recognizes. 

Shiro’s stomach riots with nausea the further on he reads. Not because the articles are graphic; they’re fairly tame, considering--though it is more likely that Shiro’s qualifiers for gruesome are skewed. But it is surreal to see the War from the vantage of a civilian, reporting from the opposition's front. The supposed corruption of Voltron and the vilification of the Coalition, he expects, understands even to a certain extent. Less so how they glorify some truly heinous individuals, many of whom Shiro fought against directly during his time as the Black Paladin. 

Though not all of what he’s feeling is directed toward the former empire. It’s not a minor portion that is aimed at himself. Planning an airstrike on a munitions facility from the isolation of the ATLAS command center is one thing; it’s quite another to read an article that details how that same airstrike created an additional 1,400 refugees to be sent to camps deeper within the empire, many of whom were the families left behind by now-deceased factory workers. 

Shiro is by no means naive. They are not somehow deemed innocent because they won or their cause was just. There is blood on his hands just as there is blood on Lord Yurak’s. He wonders if Lord Yurak regrets any of his actions; if his regrets number as many as Shiro’s. 

He takes a centering breath and clicks onto the next article. This one will be his last, he decides. 

The article is about the Battle at Naxela, because of course it is. 

> _National Forces Rally after Devastating Loss at Naxela!_

The headline is particularly obtuse, purposefully misleading, but Shiro supposes that is to be expected. Naxela had been devastating, on both sides. They had nearly lost everything. Voltron had been trapped on the surface of the planet-turned-impromptu-explosive, the rebels losing ground against the surprise appearance of Haggar. By all rights, they should have lost at Naxela, if not for the miraculous appearance of Prince Lotor. (Privately, Shiro believes the fortuitous timing was more calculated than some would wish them believe, but he knows better than to betray those sentiments to the air outside his own mind.) Despite any less-than-virtuously-earned regard Prince Lotor gained that day, he still succeeded in saving the Coalition, and thereby contributing immensely to their eventual victory. 

Shiro skims the article, looking for highlighted mentions of his potential betrothed, though he does not immediately find any. It is not until the very end, scant near the end of the publication itself, that there is a short blurb devoted to Kr. Yurak: 

> _Tragically, we must also report the death of Senior Officer Lord Marmora Kr. Yurak, who sacrificed his own life in an attempt to thwart the gambit of Lord Lotor, the Traitor Prince. Vre’peredith Sa._

Something in the words strikes Shiro as peculiar. He is no stranger to the fickle whims of the press corpse, but surely, a war hero as lauded as Yurak was warranted more of a eulogy than a trifling two sentences. He finds himself oddly offended on Lord Yurak’s behalf that the public would abandon him so callously, as well as baffled by his fiance’s sudden apparent undead status. He clicks on a hyper-linked footnote and is taken to the corrections section of a later-published issue. 

> _The previous issue in which we reported on the battle at Naxela, we mistakenly reported the death of Lord Kr. Yurak. This information has been determined incorrect. Though the destruction of his fighter jet was released in a statement by the Department of the Public, a crash site, wreckage, or body has yet to be discovered. The Lord’s official designation is M.I.A. until such a time as more definite information is uncovered._

After Naxela, there seem to be no further mentions of Lord Kr. Yurak, deceased or otherwise. 

It is odd, even for the Empire. Disturbingly so. The detail nags at Shiro, and his instinct has yet to lead him astray. He closes his NET browser and opens his private message log with Mathew Holt. 

> **_Shiro:_ ** _Do you remember a Sr. Galra officer by the name of Yurak during the War?_
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _My Dear Sir. There were at least six Yuraks per battalion during the War. _
> 
> **_Shiro:_ ** _Check the espionage and intelligence database._
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _What a scandalous suggestion!_
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _[shock-cpt-kirk.img]_
> 
> **_Shiro:_ ** _Are you saying you_ can’t _hack it?_
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _[unimpressed-face.emoji] Poor show. -10,000/10_
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _Still going to need more than just “Yurak”_
> 
> **_Shiro:_ ** _Sr. Officer Marmora Kr. Yurak, supposedly went MIA @ Naxela_
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _Naxela was a cluster fuck._
> 
> **_Shiro:_ ** _Well aware, Holt._
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _This have anything to do with your furry & fighty guest from this afternoon? _
> 
> **_Shiro:_ ** _How do you know about that already?_
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _I have my ways~ ;-)_
> 
> **_Shiro:_ ** _What did Nadia tell you?_
> 
> **_Matt_ ** _: Veronica, actually. Seems your new pal leap-frogged right over Baby McClain. Gifted her with a movement’s worth of sibling-mockery, at least. More if she was clever enough to get it on video._
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _So…?_
> 
> **_Shiro:_ ** _File first, then tea._
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _Spoiled-sport. This better be the fancy shit you drink out of one of your old teapots, not the day-old, from-the-mess-carafe kind._
> 
> **_Shiro:_ ** _Wouldn’t ask you to hypothetically commit high treason for anything less._
> 
> **_Matt:_ ** _I demand a tin of those jam biscuits Hunk makes too._

Shiro snorts at his friend’s last message. He’ll have the file within a varga. 

Glancing at the timepiece on his desk, Shiro decides he won’t get any more work done today without running the risk of missing supper entirely. Again. That, more than their “surprise guest” will make Hunk lose his wits. So, Shiro gathers his things into his satchel and, after a brief moment’s consideration, tucks the Marmora Leader’s letter securely into his coat pocket before turning out the lights and wading out into the city’s evening commuter traffic. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro returns to his residence to not one but two guests for dinner, and learns more about his mysterious Galran visitor. 
> 
> _Pidge whips around to face Shiro, a scowl taking over their features. “I am fine company I’ll have you know,” they say, planting hands on their hips._
> 
> _“The very finest,” Shiro agrees, striding in and taking a vacant seat._
> 
> _“Delightful, in fact,” they sniff. “Even Mr. Kogane thinks so.”_
> 
> _“I do,” the messenger says. “And I say so free of any attempts at bribery or blackmail.”_
> 
> _“That does nothing to alleviate my skepticism.”_
> 
> _The messenger only grins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later than I intended, but the ending was fighting me. I won out in the end though. 🦾
> 
> I wanted to get to the first of the letters in this chapter, but Pidge decided to make a guest appearance, so I feel like I can safely say the chapter count will go up again, but I don't know how many more. That just means more time with these dumb boys..? 😅 
> 
> Enjoy!

Shiro’s home in the city is a modest one, all things considered. Nestled in amongst a street of similarly-appointed buildings, his four-story townhouse is appointed with the bluish-white brickwork for which modern Altean architecture is known and a handsome garden out front. Though the most advantageous feature of Shiro’s home on Altea is the alleyway path that leads to the private courtyard garden he shares with his neighbors, allowing him to slip in through the conservatory as opposed to alerting the household by entering through the front as is typical. 

Unfortunately for Shiro, his staff knows him too well. Kincaid is waiting patiently just inside the door from the back garden to take Shiro’s satchel, coat, and hat. Shiro lets out a huff of a breath, but gives his majordomo a guilty smile. 

“How bad is it?” he asks. 

“He’s on his fourth round of Acamarian rolls, Sir.” 

Shiro winces. “That bad then.” 

“Tomorrow’s breakfast spread is sure to be quite impressive,” Kincaid says, deadpan, but Shiro knows him well enough at this point to see the hidden amusement behind his cool expression. “I took the liberty of clearing the rest of your week’s schedule since you’ll no doubt be busy entertaining our guest, and you do need to finish getting ready for your trip to Arus.” 

Shiro opens his mouth to object--he doesn’t need time off to prepare for Arus--but he closes it again. He may not need to take time off for himself for the trip to the Arus Marsh Manor, but now that he’s invited the Marmoran as a guest into his home, he  _ is  _ obligated to being a good host. He sighs internally at this unforeseen consequence of manners. 

“Well anticipated, Kincaid.” 

“Thank you, Sir.” He pulls out a handful of correspondence to pass to Shiro as they walk side-by-side toward the front rooms where, he assumes, his staff have amply provided for their guest. “Ms. Rizavi Esquire has finished going over your Grandfather’s estate and papers and everything is in order, and Ms. Leifsdottir has sent over another draft proposal for you to consider, including the most recent changes you’ve asked for in regards to the manor staff.”

Shiro nods, taking the stack of papers, which include other missives, likely invitations to galas, dinners, lectures, events, and so on. He knows Kincaid has already pre-vetted the original stack of invitations and narrowed it down to those that Shiro either must attend, would likely enjoy attending, or otherwise need Shiro’s personal response. He glances briefly through the envelops before tucking them into a pocket. 

“And no invitations to tea?” Shiro asks, feigning indifference.

“We have yet to hear from either Matron W. or Dr. Slav since the change of residencies, Sir.” 

Shiro represses his relieved sigh, if just barely. Matron W. means well, but she is a force to be reckoned with within high society gossip, perhaps only second to Matron Holt within the entirety of the Terran diaspora. His relationship with Adam was never going to be more than the close companionship they found during the war. They knew as much going into it as they do now, and continue to maintain a distant but meaningful friendship, different but just as close (and just as platonic) as his friendship with Matt and Allura. He should make a note to write Adam soon. He had heard through the Garrison grapevine that he had gotten the Centauri station department head position he wanted. Congratulations are in order.

And if Shiro never has to interact with Dr. Slav again in this lifetime and the next several others, it will be too soon. 

“Good,” Shiro murmurs. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we? Is there anything else of import?”

Kincaid gives a minimal head shake. “I will summon you and your guests for dinner at the appropriate time.” 

Shiro blinks. “Guests? As in plural?”

“Dr. Gunderson arrived approximately a quarter-hour after the visiting envoy,” Kincaid replied. Now Shiro knows he’s hiding an amused smile. “They have been entertaining your guest in the library since their arrival.” 

“Very subtle, Holt,” Shiro mutters under his breath. “And the library is still standing?” he asks Kincaid. 

“Nothing was set aflame as of when Ms. Shay served tea, but that was more than a varga ago.” 

Shiro huffs out a laugh. “Thank you, Kincaid.”

Kincaid gives a short bow before disappearing in the direction of the kitchens. 

Shiro ascends the stairs at a leisurely pace, not at all concerned about the state of his library. Not really. As he steps into the doorway, he finds Pidge mid-diatribe, arms gesturing about wildly as they defend their position to an amused-looking Galra envoy. 

“And that,” they say, smacking their hand on the reading table, “is why you should always,  _ always _ , double modulate and color-code your framework.”

Shiro does his best to refrain from snorting. “Happy to see that you were provided ample entertainment while I was indisposed.” 

Pidge whips around to face Shiro, a scowl taking over their features. “I am fine company I’ll have you know,” they say, planting hands on their hips. 

“The very finest,” Shiro agrees, striding in and taking a vacant seat. 

“Delightful, in fact,” they sniff. “Even Mr. Kogane thinks so.” 

“I do,” the messenger says. “And I say so free of any attempts at bribery or blackmail.” 

“That does nothing to alleviate my skepticism.” 

The messenger only grins.

Shiro waves his hand as if to brush the matter aside as he turns his attention back to Pidge. “I take it you are still dazzling the university with your revolutionary feats in organic robotics integration?” 

“Well, I am pretty spectacular, if I do say so myself,” they say, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from their coat. 

“Tell me about your most recent studies then,” Shiro says, settling in for a long diatribe about Pidge’s most-recent fixation with bio-nanotechnology. The conversation carries them up to when the bell summons them for dinner, through dinner and dessert and tea, which they take in the parlor. By the time Pidge’s second forgotten cup of tea has gone cold, they are scribbling short-hand in the pocket notebook they carry as Shiro dutifully shepherds them to the hailed transport. He would bribe the valet to take Pidge to the flat they share with Matt, but he knows it’s a futile effort. That Pidge would end up at their labs anyway or up all night in their study at home. Instead, he tucks the care package prepared by Hunk, a bright kerchief-wrapped box of snacks and thermos of tea next to them on the seat as he bids them farewell. 

“Send my regards to your brother if you see him,” Shiro tells them after stepping back from a farewell hug. “And that his concern was appreciated but unnecessary.” 

Pidge huffs, tucking their finger in the pages of their notebook to mark the place. “How do you know it was him, or that the visit was driven by concern? Maybe it was  _ my idea _ and I merely wanted the chance to inquire with a member of the Galra. Did you know that the Marmora specifically have a  _ fascinating  _ history with wearable technology capable of interfacing with the subconscious and projecting gathered data into a perceived reality?” 

Shiro lifts his eyebrows in a manner very much not fitting his status as a noble officer, but definitely fitting as the mutually-adopted older sibling of his friend and comrade. 

Pidge huffs. “Fine. I will admit only that my visit  _ may have been _ dual-purpose. But you cannot begrudge us our concern. It is all very sudden.” 

Shiro shakes his head, but smiles at them. “I understand,” he says. “If the situation had been reversed, I likely would have done something similar. And honestly, your visit most likely kept Hunk from losing his wits, and I’m glad someone of your intellectual caliber was here to keep Mr. Kogane from death by boredom.” 

Pidge nods. “Yes, he was actually quite well-versed in space-flight dynamics and aeronautics, both Galran and Altean, and the more recent Terran contributions. We had a lovely conversation about Neil Ross before you arrived.” 

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “You publicly denounced Ross as myopic and retrogressive, and a blight to the modern progress of all science.” 

Pidge sighs and smiles as if recalling a particularly fond memory. “I know.” When they turn back to Shiro though, they have resumed their usual demeanor. “But to the heart of it, he is most-definitely a spy, or at least trained in spycraft. But, for what it’s worth,” they add. “He is a very forthright one. And I sensed no enmity from him.” 

Shiro smiles, and he feels a real sense of relief from Pidge’s words, letting go of a tension he didn’t realize he had been holding. “Thank you, Pidge. It was good to see you.” 

Pidge’s grin widens. “You too, Shiro. You should stop by the laboratory soon. Your arm is due for a tune-up and upgrade. And possibly a bit of spiffing up if there is to be a wedding on the horizon.”

Shiro chuckles as he steps back. “Away with you, gremlin.” He stands on the curb as the carriage pulls off, waving when Pidge leans out the window to wave back at him. 

When he returns to the parlor, the messenger is just where he had been when Shiro had stepped outside to see Pidge off. He doesn’t seem to have moved--gotten up to snoop about as a typical spy would have done perhaps--but he is less casual in his posture now that Pidge has departed. He’s relaxed in his chosen parlor chair, one calf resting over his knee as his chin leans against a fist propped on the chair’s arm. He isn’t looking toward Shiro when he reenters the parlor, though the ear twitch lets Shiro know he’s alerted to his presence, but instead gazes at the room, as if taking in Shiro’s choice of decor and furnishings for the first time that night. His tea cup has been set on a side table, either finished or forgotten for now. Shiro takes the moments of his approach to study the messenger and his loose-yet-mindful posture. He pauses at the cusp of the warm firelight ensconcing his guest. 

“Would you like something else to drink?” he asks, drawing the Galra’s attention. He has the sharpest eyes Shiro’s ever seen, his subconscious duly notes. 

“Will you also be partaking?” he asks. He acquiesces when Shiro nods. 

Shiro can feel the other man’s eyes on the back of his neck as he takes their tea cups and tray, setting it on a small table next to the credenza from which he pulls out a suitably nice bottle of Olkarian white wine. He picks up two wine glasses by their stems between his fingers and returns to where they’re seated, showing his guest the provenance and vintage for his approval before pouring two glasses and offering the first to his guest. As he sits, his guest makes a perfunctory show of examining the wine before tasting. Shiro cannot help but smile behind the rim of his glass. 

“What do you think?”

“Wine is not very prevalent on Marmora, so I can’t comment much more than it is sharp and a little sweet. I enjoy the taste though.” 

“I’m glad you like it,” says Shiro. “And that you don’t consume wine often means I can forgo the usual banter about notes and character.” 

The other man snorts lightly behind a second sip. “People have characteristics. Wine is just wine. It is either to your taste or not.” 

Shiro hums neutrally, though he does secretly agree, and he’s amused by the other’s frankness. They sit in mutually-affable silence until the messenger looks up from his drink. 

“May I ask you a question?” 

Shiro cocks an eyebrow and bites back the obnoxious response he may have given Matt or Pidge in favor of a simple nod. “You may, though I reserve the right to not answer it if it is ill mannered or confidential.” 

The messenger looks baffled and mildly affronted by his response. “Naturally. I would never demand someone answer a rude question.” 

Shiro just smiles, but waves him on. 

“You do not have a very large household staff.” 

“That is not a question.” 

The Galra huffs. “Is this typical for someone of your rank?” he asks. “There is not a parallel hierarchy within Marmoran culture, but I was under the impression that someone of your stature would possess a larger retinue.”

Shiro chuckles. “A good observation. I can see why Dr. Gunderson approved of you.” 

The Galra’s ears twitch to attention at that, but he doesn’t move to comment. 

“It would be fair to say that I keep a smaller staff than most of those in equal positions to mine,” Shiro continues. “I could argue that many of my peers have larger families or estates, whereas it is only myself in this relatively modest flat. But to be perfectly honest, I do not wish for any more attendants than those I already have. In point of fact, I plan on offering most of the staff at the Arus manor the opportunity to retire, retaining only enough needed to maintain the estate.” 

In face of his answer, Shiro’s guest leans forward, balancing his elbows on his knees as he holds his glass. “Why is that?”

For a drawn-out moment, Shiro holds the other man’s intensely curious stare, distracted by the depth of color, soft-glowing gold scalera and deep blue irises that border on black. He manages to break the connection by looking down at his wine glass to take a sip. 

“Underneath the titles and peerage, I am merely a soldier, and my needs are simple. I do not wish to maintain a large number of servants for the sake of nothing but to project an expected societal norm.” 

The Galra hums and leans back, lip quirking before he takes a sip of his wine. “Interesting. Thank you for your perspective, Admiral.” 

Shiro leans back as well, throat strangely parched as he takes another sip of wine to clear it. “May I in turn ask you a question?” 

His companion’s eyebrows lift, but he waves Shiro on. 

“Dr. Gunderson addressed you as ‘Mr. Kogane.’ This is your name? I was under the impression that Galra did not use surnames.” 

The messenger grins, showing a bit of pointed fang. “You are well-informed, Admiral. We don’t use surnames in the same manner as Terrans or Alteans. We do have clan names, but it wouldn’t do to use it as a substitute.”

“Because that would make you Mr. Marmora, wouldn’t it?” 

“Exactly, and there would then be quite a few Mr. Marmoras, which would in fact complicate the problem at hand.” The other man pauses to take a last sip of his wine, and thanks Shiro when the latter lifts the bottle to refill his glass. “On the whole, it hasn’t been a problem for the Galra. Despite the expansionist nature of the empire, they were still very xenophobic. Very few dealt with outsiders. But the Marmora,” he pauses, “we have always been a nomadic clan. It has been our custom to adopt a surname among cultures that use them.” 

“Kogane is a very Terran name,” Shiro remarks. 

The messenger grins again. “A Terran name for Terran company,” he replies. 

“I should call you Mr. Kogane then?” 

“Keith,” the messenger says. “You may call me Keith.” 

They pass the rest of the evening on less personal subjects, but Shiro is rapt just the same. Between them, they finish the bottle of Olkarian wine as well as a bottle of sweet red gifted to Shiro by the Holts. It’s well past midnight when they finally retire. Loose-limbed from the wine, Shiro shows Keith to the guest room that has been made up for his stay, pushing open the door to the moderate-sized bedroom with en suite washroom. Keith pauses in the threshold and grips the door frame, pausing either in thought or to catch his balance. He turns his gaze to Shiro, his bright eyes practically luminescent in the close darkness of the hallway. 

“Thank you again,” he says. “Your hospitality to such a recent former enemy speaks highly of your character.” 

Shiro suddenly has to swallow with a mouth that feels stuffed full of cotton. He manages a weak grin in return, somewhat lopsided. 

“What is the meaning of peace if pilots still have to sleep in their cockpits?” 

The envoy blinks, but lets out a bark of a laugh. Shiro refuses to dwell on how the sound sends a shiver down his spine. 

“Truer words were never spoken,” Keith says with a grin. “Sleep well, Admiral.” 

Shiro nods. “Good night.” 

When Shiro retires to his own room, there is a full glass of water and two small medicine tablets beside it.  _ Stars Bless advanced Altean medicine and kind comrades _ , Shiro thinks as he downs the pills with a swig of water and prepares for bed. For the first time in longer than he’d like to admit, he’s confident that he won’t have a hard time falling asleep. On top of the wine, Shiro feels pleasantly worn-out from--what he wouldn’t call an “exciting” day per se, it was definitely eventful. 

There’s clearly more going on than what appears on the surface. But instead of anxiety or alarm, Shiro feels excitement thrum through him. It’s not quite the elation of piloting a fighter jet at 550 knots, but it feels like a new challenge. And Admiral Takashi Shirogane does not back down from a challenge. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/tea_an_books) with me!


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